Sleep poemsa reworking of Sleeping Beauty
by Gigi the Dancer
Summary: Based in my own life, as I try to deal with a sleep disorder. I claim an affinity with the poor Princess who slept for a hundred years. Sometimes I wonder what it was like? Did she finally feel rested? I muse on these questions and others.
1. Chapter 1

Note I am afflicted by narcolepsy, a sleep disorder in which my sleep patterns are not regulated causing one to sleep by the drop of hat. Not only are these symptoms but also you are more prone to migraines, and you dream all the time when you do actually fall asleep. Most of the time the dreams are nightmares.

**The Weight of Sleep **

Sleep rests heavily upon us, the silence oppressing and the weight of it crushing. I lay here in bed, awake deprived of the dreamless sleep which is their privilege and my quest. I yearn for sleep every night, every day, every moment of the hours.

My body feeling beaten and bruised by the light rest granted to me and yet yearning for the blissful happiness of exhaustion. No matter what I do, or how long I wait I never can find it. This quest is futile for I am narcoleptic.

I snatch sleep at odd hours, my body compelling my head to fall and my eyes to snap shut. In the middle of stories, conversations, I find myself drifting. And slowly I struggle out of the black waters of sleep, the tides pulling me to that sweet shore. Yet never do I stay for long and never do I arrive when I am supposed to.

The embarrassing implications of drifting, being lost at sea, is multi fold. Not only does it undermine the confidence you have of yourself but that of your friends and teachers in your abilities to understand, care, comprehend the enormity of their world.

A world which I would take part in fully, except for this siren's call. It lures me away, as fast as a bird can fly and a dream take shape. Startled by the cries of ghosts, haunting echoes of dreams burning in my ears, while images of horrifying visions sting my body. I cannot escape this large burden, this yoke to which I am chained. I cannot leave these fields of burning visions for I cannot escape that which is my body.

The medicines work but works too well, they lock your body into sleep, only to awaken feeling drained. They keep you anchored to this world, of people and problems and health to only find a lightning quick streak of pain following the small pills. The liquid of awful taste that which keeps you asleep, quells the urge to toss and turn but when waking up from a nightmare will not let you into this now of reality.

The comfort of the pillows and blankets, the warmth of the spread is lost upon your torso as it shivers and shakes trying to establish reality and come down from the terror of dreams. The terror which lurks, that threatens to loom above you and hold you pinned down to the bed. The terror which is only cured by the petting of the hair, crying of the eyes and the strength of will to survive this restlessness and carry on. The terror which resolves itself in your dreams only to convert into a harmless sound of the light turning on and the warm arms of a friend hugging you.


	2. Poem Number two

Another Sleep Poem

The heavy coat of exhaustion slowly creeps onto my shoulders, there to stay, a heavy yoke.

The tense, drained feeling of dark shadows surrounding my eyes and encircling my senses.

That foggy feeling of drifting aimlessly through the day having done nothing and learned nothing.

No matter how much coffee, nor how much exercise one can get, the sleep debt weighs heavily upon me. The days drift in and out blending together enfolded in the heavily muffled sounds of exhaustion. On the weekends when one can sleep in, I do. But it feels just as bad trying to catch up on sleep than actually not having it.

The body feels beaten and bruised as I crawl out of the warm, safe shelter of pink bed clothes. I struggle to dress and make the bed as I just want to lay back down and take a short nap.

Sleeping long hours was never my friend. Naps are much, short and sweet like the chocolate one gets to eat along with the smelly cheese of dessert.

Sleep is an elusive creature. I am certain it is a woman. Yes, It must be a woman, a fickle creature of nature. Perhaps the dream we dream whilst asleep does not please her. Perhaps our lovely worship of the elusive goddess causes her to abandon us even more and instead go to those undeserving folks who do not offer her incense, wine or spices, opiates or even warm milk.

Indeed Shakespeare had it quite right when he waxed poetic on her. She was nothing but a whore who would lay down in the meanest hut whereas to palaces she does not stir. She will not abide with us for but a few blissful seconds but there in those rude huts she keeps herself warm at night.

Ah! What I wish for calm and peaceful sleep, that beautiful dream of silence and restfulness. Yet ere I stay perhaps forever in this constant state of worrying wistfulness, burdened by short sleeps of bitterness and fear.


End file.
